Truth
by totallyfanfic
Summary: Dean comforts Sam after the first time he has to kill on a hunt. Dean is 11, Sam is 7. Warnings: Tiny bit of violence, swearing, alcohol abuse. If you watch the show, you should be fine. Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.


_It was just like practice, right? Just like when Dad'd pull the Impala over to the side of the road, way out in the middle of nowhere, and set up a target for him and Dean to practice shooting. It was all the same, right? Same stance, same weight of the same gun in his hand._

_Except now Dean was out cold in the corner, groaning softly, head still streaming blood. Except Dad wasn't standing over his shoulder, judging his posture with a critical eye. Except this wasn't practice._

_And this wasn't just a target._

_The witch leaned over Dad's limp form, plucking the hair she needed for the ritual. It was almost complete, he knew. But he couldn't make himself step out of the shadows. Because he knew what'd come next._

_He licked his lips, breathing hard. Practice. Just practice. C'mon, he'd shot a gun before. He could do this. He could do this. The weapon was cool and heavy in his shaking hands. He raised it… lowered it again._

_She moved toward Dean._

"_No!" _

_He was moving before he had really considered what that meant, moving before he could stop himself. The witch turned, shocked, but it was too late…_

_He was by the side of the road, the sun on his back, smelling fall and dirt and faint smoke. He could feel the wind in his hair. He could see the target. He took off the safety. He aimed._

_Bulls-eye._

Sam wakes up in a cold sweat. Sits up. Looks around.

The motel's clock reads 3:31 in harsh green light. The shadows it casts across his sleeping brother's face remind Sam all too much of that damn sewer, with its damn green light and so Sam yanks it out of the wall by the cord and throws it across the room.

Glass shatters. It's dark again. Mercifully dark.

Beside him, Dean stirs in the bed they're sharing. "S'mmy? What's the matter…?" When Sam doesn't immediately answer, Dean's instantly on red alert, hand plunging under his pillow for his gun, but Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine, Dean. Go back to sleep."

That's all it takes for Dean to relax, but he doesn't lie back down. "What's wrong, Sam? Nightmare?"

And Sam almost can't decide whether to laugh or cry, because yeah, it was a nightmare about a monster, and yeah, he's seven, so he should be able to curl up next to his big brother or his dad and they should make it better. But the kicker is, it's not the monster that the nighmare was about. He sees those things every week. It's _him. _

So he just shrugs. "Yeah." It's easier.

Dean seems to get it, though, without it ever being said. He glances over at Dad, still conked out from the alcohol of last night, and pulls Sam into his arms. "This's about killing that witch lady, isn't it." It's not a question.

It's not a question, so Sam doesn't give it an answer. He just shrugs again, squirming out of Dean's arms. "I'm fine."

Dean laughs a little then, and Sam thinks how wrong it is that this is what passes for humor. "You ain't fine." He's right and Sam knows it, so he stills and lets Dean hold him close, the steady thump of his brother's heart sounding in his ears, reminding him how close it was to stopping. "Sammy… you did what you had to do, you know that."

"Yeah." Sam's voice sounds dead and hollow even to his own ears.

"I mean it, dude." Dean spins him around, trying to meet his eyes, but Sam just looks away. "That bitch was about to kill me and Dad. She'd already killed a whole class full of sixth graders. You did the right thing."

"I know, Dean." Sam sighs. "I know that. I know it shouldn't bug me. I did what I had to do, and we can't save everyone. I know that. But Dean..." Sam looks up then. "That was the first time I've ever _killed _someone."

Dean grimaces a little. "Yeah. Yeah, it's tough the first time. I… I know it's hard at first, Sammy, but give it a few years. Soon it won't even faze ya."

"That supposed to make me feel _better_, Dean?"

His brother's quiet for a bit, and then, "No. Guess it wouldn't."

Sam reaches under the bed, grabs a wallet from his boot, hands it to Dean. "The lady… Margaret Alwood. She had a husband, Nick. A daughter, Julie. The kid's three. She had pictures."

Dean looks through the wallet. "You kept this?" Sam just shrugs again.

A sigh. "Sammy… this isn't gonna make you feel better. Hangin' onto it like this. It sucks, I know that… but you gotta learn to let it go. Keeping this…" he shakes the wallet, tossing it back to Sam, "is just gonna make you feel worse. Just gonna remind you and make you feel guiltier."

Sam knows he's right. His brother's always right about this kind of stuff. But he still tucks the wallet back into his boot. "Dammit, Sam…" He ignores Dean.

Sam stares at Dean softly. "I gotta remember. It's gotta hurt. Cause I think if it stops… I think if it ever stops hurting, it means you're less… human." He hesitates, not sure if he should keep going, but Dean's still listening, so he just talks. "I mean, I've already crossed one line. I don't wanna cross another."

Dean nods, thinking, and then gives him a sad smile. "Cut it out, Sammy, you're making me look bad."

His eyes widen. "N-no, Dean, that's not what I meant! I'm not sayin' you're…" But Dean's not angry, he just looks sad, so Sam just leans back into his brother. "That's not what I meant."

"I know it isn't, Sam." Dean's voice is softer than it ever is. Here, in the dark, with Dad out cold, it's lost its usual gruff edge, and when Sam looks up, his brother's face looks so young in the moonlight, even with the careful stitches in his temple. "I'm just sayin'. This is our life. Saving people, hunting things… it's the family business. You gotta learn to keep the pain, keep human… but bury it in the back of your mind, bury it where it can't hurt you." He looks over at Dad. "Or you'll end up like him."

"I hate it, Dean," Sam whispers brokenly, the words out before he registers them as a conscious thought. But then once he's started, it sort of pours out. "I hate this life. All of it. I hate always fighting and running, crappy motel rooms, never settling down. I hate you splinting my broken arm because Dad thinks it's too risky to go to a damn hospital. I hate knowing what it's like to dig a bullet outta my brother's shoulder and stitch the hole up. I just… I just hate this…" And now Sam's crying, and he hates that, too, but it won't stop and for some reason Dean doesn't push him away, just holds him tighter.

His brother's murmuring soothing nothing in his ear, rubbing circles into his back, and Sam just grabs him and holds on tight until that's all that's left, because really, it kinda is. Dad's Dad, he's a killer now, but Dean's still Dean. Dean's always Dean. The words start to make sense. "Ssh, ssh, it's okay. It's okay, Sammy. I've got you. I've got you."

Sam realizes what he's doing and pushes himself away, away from his brother, dragging a sleeve across his wet face. "Dean, god, I—"

But Dean's not mad. "I get it, man. It hurts. It really hurts."

He nods tightly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. "I never wanted to be a killer, Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "You're not. You're not, Sam, I promise you. You're _human_. And that means making mistakes. You gotta learn from them and move on. Try to keep going. Try to do better next time." He smiles sadly. "All we can do is keep going. Save as many people as we can, you know?"

And Sam understands. He really, really does, but… "It never goes away, does it? The hurt."

Dean closes his eyes, is quiet for so long that Sam almost thinks he's fallen asleep again, but then, "No. No, it doesn't."

Selfishly, recklessly, Sam keeps pushing. "It still hurts you… even now?"

"I try not to let it."

Dean's replies are getting shorter, now, tighter, and Sam knows he's dancing dangerously close to the line where he'll just shut down. Talking about Sam's feelings is one thing, but his own? That's something Dean rarely does, even at three in the morning in a crappy motel with no one to hear but Sam and whatever the hell lives in the walls.

So Sam doesn't tell Dean. Doesn't tell him how this life is killing him inside. Doesn't let slip how much he really wants to just be normal – just another _kid_, not a friggin soldier. He certainly doesn't ask about the dead look he's seeing start to creep into his big brother's eyes.

Anyway what good would it do to talk about it? Nothing would change. This is life. Two-point-five kids, a dog, picket fence? That's not reality. Reality is out there, it's the things that go bump in the night, it's the monsters they gotta fight, both outside and in. Reality's fighting so other people don't have to face it. Sam may be a kid, but he can understand that.

So he just nods, and says, "I love you, Dean." It's not a lie.

Dean says, "I love you, too, Sammy," and that isn't either.

And as Sam falls asleep again, his head nestled safe in the crook of Dean's arm, he thinks that maybe that's all the truth he's ever gonna get.


End file.
